Rio de Janeiro
by Lily Turtle
Summary: It was my third day in the ICU that I realized he was never coming back.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: This is what happened after Edward left. Bella never fell in love with Jacob. Sorry JB shippers. Bella jumped off the cliff, Alice never saw, Jacob never rescued her, Edward never went to Italy. Just an idea that demanded I write it into existence. AU obviously._

**Prologue**

It was my third day in the ICU that I realized he was never coming back.

I was eighteen, and I had graduated high school, so what'd I do? I did something that wasn't me at all. I packed my bags and left on a four month long volunteer trip to South America, Brazil to be exact.

I cut my hair short, so short that I sometimes reminded myself of Alice. I tried not to look in the mirror much.

I still remember the day I jumped. It was cold, the wind biting my face. They only sound was that of the water churning violently below me, and all I knew was that it had been the most alive I'd felt in a very long time. And when I stepped off the ledge, I was indescribably, morbidly happy.

That is, I was happy until I hit the water. It closed over me like a fist.

I expected him for some reason. He'd have come if I really needed him, right? Wrong.

He never came. Bruised and battered, I washed up onto the beach shivering. Sam Ulley found me later and drove me to the hospital. They had to pump water out of my lungs. I had a broken leg, two broken ribs, and was in the intermediate stages of hypothermia when I arrived. The doctors said I was lucky, but I didn't feel that way.

After that, I just wanted to be different. It took me weeks to realize why.

Maybe, just maybe, if I had a different life, I could forget. If I could become a different person, I would simply loose all remnants of who I had been before.

Charlie didn't stop me, not after I convinced him how much I really wanted to do it. And I did, in more ways than just wanting to change. I truly did want to help people, or at least, that's what I told myself. It was the first step to becoming someone new, making myself truly _believe_ I was someone new.

I coughed up the five grand, boarded a plane, and left Forks behind, headed to Rio de Janeiro.


	2. Trying to Remember to Forget

**Disclaimer:** Let's get something straight. Clay Aiken, please. (tehehehe) Jk, although news of his homosexuality has made me sad. But, aside from that, I do not own Twilight… or Clay Aiken, for that matter.

_A/N: Sorry I've been gone for FOREVER. Stuff's come up. Ms. Muse found me again. (I was hiding) She dragged me all the way to this cursed keyboard… (sniffle) I can never escape. There will be one geographical error in this story, just because I misread something. Alagados is not in Rio, but it is in brazil. Close enough, right? Question: Do you want reviewer shoutouts (C rose thorns) or just regular reviewer replies._

_R & R please. Thanks,_

_Your humble reptile_

_**Chapter One**_

**Trying to Forget to Remember**

_Two Months Later_

Unsuccessfully, I tried to focus through the ruckus. _Carnaval_ was taking place, a festival in which the entire city would annually explode with bright colors and music. Steele drums and maracas were sounding an upbeat melody down the street, people smiling and dancing to the beat. Thick beads of sweat rolled down their faces in the one-hundred-degree Rio sun.

Apparently, loud music and alcohol could somehow save a person from heat exhaustion.

I was sitting on the beach, CD player turned up as high as it would go, earphones clamped securely over my ears. Portuguese was the dominant language in Brazil. The brochure for Projects Abroad, the company I'd gone through to come here, had lied when they'd said that all I would need was a passport and a 'good heart for helping'. I mostly needed a basic understanding of the native tongue.

"**Eu vou à escola todos os dias," **the monotone voice on the CD said. "I go to school every day. Now you try."

"Eu vou à…" But then I stopped, unsure of what the rest of it was. A loud banging sound off to the right distracted me.

"Great job," the voice said.

"At least someone's optimistic,' I mumbled, switching the Discman off and reclining in the sand, my endeavors having been proved fruitless. After looking, I had discerned that the bang on my right had been the first few buzzing chords of an electric guitar. A long-haired man working the strings stood on a raised platform, eyes closed, head nodding. People were beginning to gather round, and he was showing no sign of stopping.

Good, I convinced myself. This was good. Listening to music. _This _kind of music. The loud, obnoxious type that Edward would've hated.

I ran his name through my mind again, pleased that it didn't make me cringe anymore. I smiled vindictively as another high-pitched chord reverberated through the air, drowning out even the crashing blue surf. Then the man picked up the microphone and began wailing out a song in Portuguese.

I scowled at my Discman, doubting the guitar player was talking about going to school every day, or that he had ever been at all even.

A breeze sailed in, one of those briny kinds that just feel good no matter what sort of mood you're in. I let it play on my face, blowing my short tresses back and out of my way. The smell was relaxing and soothing, temporarily erasing unwelcome thoughts and memories. My savior.

This was the best way to spend a Sunday.

Back in the States, I'd never thought much of Sundays, not that I didn't appreciate that sacredness of it, just that it had always been 'that day before Monday'. Here though, the volunteers were off Sundays. Most of said volunteers spent that down time with friends, several martinis in their stomachs, popping olives off of toothpicks with their teeth, blood-alcohol-contents perilously high.

I, however, preferred solitude. _Not _loneliness. I wasn't lonely because I was _choosing_ to not be social. With that choice in hand, I had power over my own destiny, fate be damned. My Sundays were spent happily solitudinous, by my own making.

And I was happy, so happy I could barely stand it. After all, in this country, so very different from the one I grew up in, I could be anybody I wanted to be. That choice, too, was liberating. Refreshing, like diving into a pool on a sweltering summer's day.

I wanted to be a rock star? It was possible.

An Olympic gold medalist? Sure I could.

Prime minister? Why the hell not.

Rio was the kind of place that made all the opportunities in the world seem like they were just across the street. All I had to do was knock on the door.

Bongos joined the guitar, an eclectic combination, but it somehow worked. The music made me want to revolt against convention, stand up to the man.

Or the past.

I drummed my fingers on the sand with the rhythm, watching nothing but the back of my eyelids changing shade as clouds sailed across the Sun, little eclipses. I did that, and thought about the future.

Later today, I resolved to visit Isla and her family. Isla was one of the children I was assigned to. Though I wasn't supposed to pick them, she was my favorite. She was sweet and caring and funny, refusing to be pessimistic even in the face of her shabby living conditions in the slums on the eastern outskirts of town. It was astounding really, how children could always have hope.

I sat up suddenly. Someone on the podium had cranked up the amplifier, and the assault on my eardrums jolted me to the present tense.

Good, I convinced myself. This was good.

**XXX**

I stayed at the beach most of the day, only leaving when the long-haired man buckled his guitar case and left, and the crowd had scattered off to find another good time. Then, I wrapped my headphone cord around the CD player and stuffed the combo into a backpack, turning my back on the exotic waves and heading back to Alagados, the shantytown I was stationed at.

Despite the terrible living conditions and the infant mortality rate, and all those other statistics that put the town on the bottom of the food chain, Alagados had a certain charm. Thousands of little shacks were set upon flimsy stilts, those stilts being stuck into the sandy bottom of an inlet. People fished out of their bedroom windows.

Various objects contributed to the haphazard construction of these abodes. Hanging from one house, was a clump of tin cans, a homemade wind chime, held there by a string. When the breeze blew, the cans would rattle.

Another shack was composed entirely of car parts, obtained from the local dump no doubt. A hood formed an awning over the doorway, where a man sat in a chair made of driftwood. This was one of the nicest ones.

Roofs were composed of all sorts of things, from cardboard to palm fronds to quilts to surfboards. Towels served as doors. Decorations were whatever the people who lived here could find - a glittering violet barrette clipped on a roof, a ribbon tied to a post, a tye dyed shirt waving in the wind like a flag, bits of tin foil. Even Christmas ornaments were hooked onto some of the thatched walls.

Connecting everything were bridges and clothes lines. Everywhere I went I had to watch my step and push fabric out of my way.

At the same time though, I had only recently found the charm, and only after a two-month long search for it.

Alagados was still terrible, more dark cloud than silver lining.

Some shacks were tilting, sliding off the rocks, their stilts giving into the ocean. Still, I watched people walk in them every day, heedless. Or maybe they heeded it and just didn't care.

Other shacks were caving in, roofs collapsing, walls pushing in under the weight. Again, people slept there every night.

The bridges connecting it all were thin and full of holes. Ankles were broken every day. Then, those people, unable to afford or unwilling to seek health care, would make splints from sticks and reeds. The joint would heal the wrong way, and for the rest of their lives, that person would limp.

That, however, was not the worst health problem. No, not by a long shot.

Deaths were regular. At least once a week, I'd actually see a body lying in the street or being tossed into the water. Real humans, young, barley in their late twenties, were dropping lifeless all around me from diseases like Malaria that there were simple vaccinations for.

In all my life I had never been so close to death, not even when I frequently visited vampires. I was starting to learn that Edward had never had a clue as to what death, real mortal death, had meant. He'd never seen it, or smelled it, or _tasted_ it like I could here. Maybe in Chicago he had known, but not now.

Now. My breath hitched. It did that every time I reminded myself that he was out there right now. Somewhere. The concept that we were still running in the same time frame always staggered me, but thoroughly used to the sensation, I bottled up the emotions, forcing them down into a dark place inside my heart where they couldn't escape. At least until the next time I stopped remembering to forget.

I kept my eyes down walking over the wooden causeways. It wouldn't do to break a bone. My project manager might just send me home, back to Forks and away from all this delicious freedom.

The collar of my shirt was pulled up over my nose. I was trying not to smell anything.

The inhabitants of Alagados smelled like people who bathed in the same water they deposited their wastes into, which was what they were. Plumbing, sewage system, and graveyard were conveniently provided by the ocean.

"Izzy!" called a small voice, and I smiled at the name I was called here.

Isla ran toward me on the dock, dark curls bouncing on her shoulders, a smile on her dirt-smudged face.

"Hey munchkin," I said, as the seven-year-old collided with me, throwing her short little arms around my waste.

"I drew you a picture," she said, in perfect English. Her family had been with Projects Abroad for a few generations. All of them spoke my language fluently. They were the only family I was assigned to like that. It was part of the reason I spent so much time with them.

"Really?" I asked, "Of what?"

She giggled. "It's a surprise."

"Should I close my eyes?" I asked.

She nodded, and I did.

"Now," Isla said, in a commanding voice that was too cute. "Spin around four times."

I did, shaking my head. "Now what?"

"Jump up and down twice."

I laughed, but did as she asked, carefully, so as to not fall into the filthy water. "Kay."

"Now bark like a dog."

I barked. "What was that for?" I asked.

I saw she was doubled over laughing. "You're silly," she said, then looked up. "Hey! You're peeking!"

I shrugged.

"Now you don't get to see it," she pouted.

"I'll tell you what." I bent down to her level. "I'll trade you a piggy back ride for the picture. How's that?"

She looked away for a minute, contemplating my offer, before turning back to me. "Deal," she agreed, putting out a hand for me to shake. I shook it and pivoted, letting her climb onto my shoulders. She was using locks of my hair as reins.

"Giddyup!" Isla cried.

I rolled my eyes, before continuing into her small little two room shack.

Iara, Isla's mother, was sitting in a cot in the middle of the room, knitting something. This was the bedroom, with three cots for Isla, her parents, and her big brother Paca.

Paca was away at the hospital PA had built near the center of the community, being treated for salmonella. Isla's father Davi was away for a week, out on a trip to dive for lobsters he could sell at the local market. Since I'd been in Brazil, I'd only met him twice, and those times he was too tired to make conversation.

"Ola," Iara greeted me tightly.

"Ola," I said back.

"Here it is. Here it is." Isla pulled a piece of paper out from under her cot. On it, she had drawn two stick figures wearing red and orange flowing dresses. The background was… a forest. Rainclouds consumed her scribbled sky, with thick crayon droplets falling down.

My heart sank. She'd drawn us in Forks.

"Did I draw it right?" she asked enthusiastically. "I tried to make it like you said it was."

"Yeah, Isla." I coughed, trying to remove the choking sound in my voice. "I mean, it's perfect. It's beautiful." I plastered on a grin, and took the drawing. "I love it."

"Good," she said. "I think I'd like it there, with that many trees."

"Oh, I don't know," I said, trying to downplay someplace she'd probably never get to see. "You like the sunshine, and you'd never get to see it if you were there. Plus, it's cold." I crossed my arms over my chest and shivered, emphasizing the point. "You couldn't wear your Barbie sandals."

Isla glanced down at her beloved pink flip flops. I'd given them to her when I got here. The brochure had said that most families had needed shoes, so I had brought an entire suitcase full. Isla picked the Barbie ones. It was love at first sight.

"Oh," she said. "Well, I could just wear socks." She grinned and bounded away. Clearly, the case had been closed.

Iara glanced at me out of the corner of her eye, warily. Her lips pursed in disproval. 'I tried,' I mouthed.

She shook her head and returned to her knitting.

A few weeks ago, Iara had had a talk with me about how I was not to get her daughter's hopes up. I was supposed to make her take initiative into fixing up her own town, not long for another that she couldn't ever go to. But Isla was ambitious, and I had nothing to do with the desires she felt to see more of the world than just her little slice.

"Let's play tic-tac-toe!"

That was Isla's next suggestion. So we played, with the spiral notebook and crayons PA had given to her. We made the boards as small as we could, wasting as little paper as possible. Even so, half the notebook was filled up with dot games, hang man, and tic-tac-toe boards. I let her win some, and I won some, except for the dot game. She beat me almost every time, even when I did put effort into winning.

The tally was fifteen for Isla, to my eleven when Iara said tersely, "It's Isla's bedtime."

"Bye Izzy!" she called when I left.

"See ya later munchkin."

I made my way off of the causeways, into the more stable part of the shantytown, the part that was on the mainland. I ambled down the edge of the dirt road, staying away from the drunks and the cartwheeling performers in billowy clothes.

Partying, I thought, was clearly not affected at all by poverty.

As I made my way to the center of the city, where I was boarded, I pulled the picture Isla had drawn me out of my pocket. In her drawing, we were holding hands and smiling, not a care in the world. The backdrop though brought tears to my eyes, not only for the memories that welled up with the sight of it, but also because I would give anything to take Isla there. I desperately wanted to free her from this world of starvation and death. The world was so unfair.

I jammed the paper back into my pocket and walked faster, head down, until someone put a hand on my shoulder.

I jumped around, prepared to fight off a mugger, but relaxed when I saw Darren.

"Easy turbo," he said casually. "It's only me. And I couldn't hurt you if I tried."

He gestured to his scrawny arms and legs, before pushing his glasses up on his nose. They were always slipping down. Darren was one of the only people at PA that I talked to, and it wasn't without specific effort to avoid it, but Darren was persistent. He could've gotten a wall to talk if he wanted to. After a while, it was just easier to give in.

"I almost punched you in the stomach."

He made a face. "Cruel and unusual punishment Izzy. You shouldn't threaten guys with that."

I laughed. "Yeah, well, guys are big babies."

"I'll be your baby," he said, eyebrows wiggling. I shoved him out of the way and kept walking.

"Whatever, Romeo," I mumbled.

_It is the East, and Juliet is the Sun. Arise fair Sun and kill the envious moon._ Topaz eyes flashed through my mind, and a haunting whisper.

I shook it off and kept trudging, Darren on my heels. "Touchy, touchy," he said. "You know what _you_ need? A nice Bloody Mary. I'll buy."

"No thanks."

"Oh, c'mon." He trotted in front of me, walking backwards. "I won't take advantage of you. I think it would just be a good way to take away the stress."

"I'm not stressed."

He gave me an unbelieving look. "You have bags under your eyes, your hair looks like a haystack, you barely even eat anything. You're going to croak soon if you don't loosen up a little."

"Gee Darren, you really know how to flatter a gal."

"Just one."

"No."

"Please?"

I sighed. "No."

"I'll take your kitchen duty tomorrow. You can sleep in a whole extra hour."

Damn him. "Just one then…" I agreed tentatively, wondering why he was so insistent.

Darren grinned, one of those ear-to-ear grins, before dragging me into the nearest pub, sitting me down on a bar stool, and slapping down some bills on the counter.

One turned into two. Two turned into three. Three turned into…

Good, I convinced myself. This was good.


End file.
